The Bird Tongue
by Sylvia Key
Summary: Old Mrs. Cole has since retired from her post as matron of the orphanage where she worked in London...but one day, she receives a caller, someone looking to dredge up a buried past...


The Bird Tongue

She felt as if she had been walking forever. The old woman's house was a long way out of town, and she had not found anyone willing to give her a lift, perhaps because it was raining so hard; perhaps because they noticed the rain did not seem to touch her.

Despite her fatigue, she savored the journey, the long trek over silver-grizzled hills that seemed to lift her up into the dun sky. _Tops are places where nothing higher is to be looked to_, she thought as she struggled to yet another summit. _What if I found him here, at the top of this very hill? The highest man on the highest hill—would he laugh with me at the irony of it? _

There it was, suddenly: her destination. A paint-peeled, ramshackle little cottage covered with dying vines. She was afraid suddenly, not of what she might find there, but of what she might not. This place was her last chance. If she failed here, she would be lost, with nowhere left to turn. She walked slowly up the deeply rutted drive that led to the cottage; though the mud was soft and viscous after the long rain, her boots left no prints at all.

Agatha Cole was in her parlor, sipping some tea and looking fretfully out at the interminable grey that was the only thing visible from her window. Her cleaning girl had gone home for the day. She was in a bad temper when she left, because Mrs. Cole had misplaced the envelope with her wages in it, and had apologetically asked her to wait. Indeed, _everything_ had gone wrong today. One of the roosters—a handsome bantam named Virgil, who had been Mrs. Cole's favorite—had been found inexplicably dead in the coop. The milk had gone sour after being left out for too long (Mrs. Cole blamed Susan, the maid, but Susan swore the bottles had been open when she went out to collect them in the morning), and so all that was left to eat were stale biscuits and tea.

Mrs. Cole had also fallen into a strange habit of dreaming very vividly, often while she was still awake. She dreamt mostly of the past, and of the children, with their round little face, unsharpened by age. Delicate little Janet, Louise's long brown braids, Ernest with his wild mop of curls…and then that other…

She was startled by a knock at the door. For a moment she waited, expecting Susan to go answer it, before remembering that Susan had gone home. Laboriously, Mrs. Cole raised herself out of the chair and hobbled toward the door. She stood in front of it, her hand pressed to the wood, waiting for the visitor to give up, waiting for the sound of retreating footsteps that would allow her to retreat to her armchair and continue her reveries. The visitor was not so easily daunted, however; the knock sounded again. Reluctantly, Mrs. Cole opened the door.

A young girl stood before her, wrapped in a black cloak. She was young, with a long curtain of dark hair, pale skin, and slanting hazel eyes.

"Yes," asked Mrs. Cole, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her as the wind swept into the house.

The girl looked at her with an expression that was a strange mixture of distaste and supplication. "Hello," she said quietly. "I'm looking for Tom."

"It's very cold," said Mrs. Cole. "Do you want to come in?"

"Please," said the girl, though Mrs. Cole was not sure if she was begging for information, or merely accepting the proffered invitation. She walked inside, and Mrs. Cole's first thought was that she must be wounded. It was not obvious why, for she was not visibly injured, but her bearing was of someone suffering from a very great pain.

They sat together in the parlor, the girl—she had said her name was Perdita Noble—having refused the offer of tea (though Mrs. Cole had put the kettle on anyway, out of common politeness). Outside the rain whimpered as it streamed down the windows. The fire was dying, but somehow the coal had gotten wet, and so it could not be stoked. Mrs. Cole apologized for this, and wordlessly, Perdita rose and went to the coal box. She stood motionless for a minute, and Mrs. Cole thought she heard her murmur something. Then she took a shovelful of coal and dumped it on the fire, which began to burn immediately, lending a golden cheerfulness to the drab little room.

"I'm looking for Tom," said Perdita, resuming her seat. "Do you know where he is? I need…I need to find him." She said the words as if she were dying.

"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Cole. "I haven't seen Tom in years…not since…not since he left for his last year at school. Is that how you know him? From school?"

"Yes. We were…in the same House."

"It was a special school, wasn't it? I mean, that headmaster…he was a rather special man, if you know what I mean. That beard…" she laughed uneasily under Perdita's suspicious stare.

"Anyway," Mrs. Cole continued, "I have not had word since then."

"It's just…I thought he might come here," Perdita explained. "You're one of the only people Tom had in the world."

Mrs. Cole laughed dryly. "Our Tom never needed anyone in this world, Miss Noble, least of all myself. Whether or not he found anyone to _use _is a different matter."

Perdita flinched. "Well, if you see him…if you see him, will you tell him I am looking for him?"

"Of course, my dear."

"He's in danger, you know," she said, a little wildly. "They're looking for him. Everyone. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Moody…he disappeared right after school was over, you see. No one knew where. That was a year ago, and there's no trace. I've been looking for him since then. I have to find him before they do, to warn him. I didn't know…he didn't tell _me_ he was leaving…it was Dumbledore who told me. He called me in to his office and asked me if I knew where Tom had gone and if he would be back…" she stopped abruptly, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Did he…did he do something _wrong_?" asked Mrs. Cole. She felt distant all of a sudden, and realized that she had blundered into another dream. She was standing in the orphanage, and there was a rabbit hanging from the ceiling. Beneath it a little boy was shrieking and crying, his hands stretched upward toward the limp body. And from the doorway another little boy watched, his face solemn, but his grey eyes gleaming with satisfaction…

"_No_," said Perdita. "He hasn't done anything. He just…they don't..." she gave up trying to explain. "I just need to find him."

"I can't help you, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Cole firmly, both to her dream visions, and to the girl in front of her. She put her hand in front of her eyes, as if to brush away the sticky cobwebs of memory from her mind.

"I shall go then," said the girl, standing up. In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle.

"Won't you stay for some tea," inquired Mrs. Cole, "and wait out the storm?"

"Oh, I don't mind the rain. My cloak keeps me warm."

She left. Mrs. Cole watched her go, the black form growing slowly more distant. "Louise," she murmured. "Louise, go fetch me some tea. I think I'm getting a chill, and some tea will do me good…"

She looked around, but did not see Louise. There was, however, a young boy kneeling on the floor, intent on something lying prone before him. Mrs. Cole went over to investigate. "Tom, what are you doing?" she asked. The boy looked up at her. He was about ten, but already strikingly good-looking, with glossy dark hair and pewter eyes. He met her gaze defiantly, fear and malice sparkling in their depths. The thing on the floor was a robin, already dead, poor thing, its wings splayed on the ground, its thin, fragile legs bent awkwardly. The lower half of its beak was missing.

"Tom!" said Mrs. Cole angrily, reaching for his shoulder. He scooted away from her.

"I just wanted to see what made it sing!" he protested. "I wanted to see its tongue and its throat, so I could know the reason why."

Mrs. Cole looked at him, horrified.

"Go to your room, Tom," she ordered. "There will be no dinner for you tonight."

"I didn't have any dinner last night, either," he said, as he wandered upstairs.

"Mrs. Cole?"

She whirled around, and found herself staring at Susan's round, jolly face, which wore a look of concern, instead of its usual smile.

"Susan," said Mrs. Cole. "Dear, would you see to our visitor? She's waiting for tea in the parlor."

Susan peered into the room behind her. "Mrs. Coal, ma'am? There's no one in the parlor, ma'am."

"Nonsense. She's sitting in the chair. She's bleeding all over, only hers in a bloodless wound…"

"Let me help you to bed, Mrs. Cole. You're over-tired, I think," said Susan, steering the old woman carefully toward the stairs.

Perdita stopped to rest by a tree. The hope that had so far given her the energy to continue had fled, and despair had settled on her like a stone. She plucked a blade of grass and pressed its droplets to her lips. A strange wailing sounded in the distance, the ringing of a cracked bell or the howling of the wind or a lost soul.

Where could he be? Again, she remembered the last time she had seen him, going over the events in her mind, as if rereading an old letter, lovingly smoothing out the folds, lingering over certain moments.

They were in one of the castle cellars, working on a particularly difficult potion, _Felix Felicis _that Tom wanted as part of what he called The Grand Scheme of Things. He had confided in Perdita some of these grandiose plans, but she preferred to fantasize about the day when Tom would propose to her. His hate for the world would crumble apart they could retreat together to her family's manor, living in quiet study, emerging to dazzle the wizarding world with their brilliant discoveries. Of course, Muggles and Mudbloods were despicable creatures, but she and Tom would be far away in the remote wilds of the north, removed from the stupidity and baseness of the common world.

Perdita leaned against the tree, pretending that it was a supporting torso, and buried her fingers in the dead leaves, hunting for hands where there was nothing but damp soil.

"I'm leaving soon," he had informed her icily. "As soon as NEWTs are finished, I will be gone. I may not be back for a very long while."

"But…but where are you going?" asked Perdita, flabbergasted. She had almost dropped the Redcap foot she was holding into the brewing potion, something that could have proved disastrous.

Instead of answering, Tom approached her, standing so close that it would be easier to touch her, but he held himself back, barely. Their gazes locked, and she felt herself drawn to his eyes. They glittered like razors encased in glass, marked with a mercilessly clear notice, _Do not touch_.

He stroked her hair, and she leaned into his touch. "When I first saw you, I knew I wanted your hair all for myself," he whispered.

He kissed her, pressing hard against her lips. His mouth tasted bitter, like tea and cigarettes. Perdita tried to pull away a little, to re-orient herself, but he held her in place, kissing her fiercely, breaking to rain kisses over her eyelids and along her jaw.

"I love you, Tom," she whispered. "I love you because it's you."

"You're very subtle," he laughed sleekly.

"But I'm not," she said.

"Well, I hate you to no end," he told her. "That's just as good. Better even. You make my heart burn."

"I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing," said Perdita.

"It's good to burn," he told her. Taking her hand, he pressed it to his cheek. "Feel how cold I am…"

"You must be frozen!" Perdita cried. She embraced him fiercely.

He smiled lazily at her, "Luckily I have you." He kissed her again, backing her slowly up, leaning her against the stony wall. The uneven rocks dug into her back; she wondered if there would be bruises. Tom's kisses were as gentle as the brush of a bird's wings, fluttering against her neck and lips. His fingers were dancing lightly over her shoulders, wandering farther down. He tugged her robes down around her shoulders she felt goosebumps prickling up on the exposed flesh. Perdita felt her pulse quickening. _My love will be brought to bear_, she thought.

"Say I can come with you, Tom," she breathed. "Say I can follow you anywhere."

He let her go with such an abruptness that she fell back against the wall, a stone digging into the small of her back. He tugged his shirt back into place, and smoothed his ruffled hair. His normally pallid cheeks were brilliantly red, though Perdita couldn't tell if it was rage or passion that colored them.

"Stop twittering at me," he said angrily, turning back toward the table with the potion. "Is it time to add the Redcap foot yet?"

"Oh, Tom!"

"You'll do it, won't you?" he asked. "I'm knackered, I'm going to bed." He glanced at her, and his gaze softened a bit, though his eyes remained cold. "Don't cry, pet. You know I can't bear it. We'll talk about this later."

"Why are you being this way?" she whispered. Her mouth tasted like blood.

"Good night, Perdita," he said, giving her a brusque kiss on the forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow."

But she had not seen him tomorrow, nor the next day. Then Dumbledore had called her into his office to ask about Tom's whereabouts, and she realized that he had actually left her, taking a part of her with him. She had been searching ever since. Now, though, it seemed there was nowhere left to search. Her parents had long since lost patience with her and stopped giving her money; she was reaching the end of her funds, and the end of her strength. Webs of empty roads stretched endlessly before her.

"Don't let me wander alone," she implored the tree.

"_Avada Kedavra_," said a soft voice. Perdita went limp, her head lolled to one side. Two dark figures approached her, throwing back their hoods when they reached the body.

"Pity," said Voldemort, his handsome face betraying no emotion. "If only she'd had the brains to leave well enough alone, stupid girl."

"Who was she?" asked his companion.

"Some girl from school."

"A girlfriend?"

"I think she loved me," he said coolly.

His companion said nothing, only gazed at the girl. She had slid to the ground when the spell hit her, and now lay as if asleep, her limbs at odds, her hair spilling richly over the leaves. "Are we going to just leave her here?"

"Yes; transfigure the body into a stone or a leaf or something. Except…" he hesitated.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Take out her heart."

"My lord?"

"Her heart. I want it. I never understood how it worked, you see. I never knew why she would have loved me. And I never knew…why I felt…how I felt about her. I want to find out. Besides, I think it would make a good Horcrux, don't you? What better place for a torn soul than a heart? I find it very poetic."

"You do her an honor."

"Yes, well, hurry up. We still have to call on Mrs. Cole."


End file.
